I was dreading this client visit. On the drive over, it struck me that once I told Clara Ridge about her son’s death, she would truly be alone in this world. No husband, no child. I suppose she’d been alone until now anyway: she hadn’t known where her son was, or if he was alive or dead. But I couldn’t help think that part of her motive for hiring me to find him was reaching out, trying to resurrect what was left of her family, finding a way to end her loneliness, and Matthew’s as well. The news I was about to deliver would kill that hope forever.
I stepped out of the car, locked the door, and gingerly made my way down the unshovelled walkway and up three cement steps to the front door of the house. The front picture window and half-moon of glass in the door were heavily draped, and after I rang the bell, I knocked—just in case. I saw the fabric over the door window shift ever so slightly. I waited another thirty seconds, then knocked again.
The door curtain was pushed to the side, and behind it I saw a prune-like face that had been around for at least ninety years. Untrusting eyes stared out at me from behind the thick lenses of the elderly gentleman’s dark-rimmed glasses. Even through the filmy window I could easily make out a thin line etched across each oval of the poorly crafted bifocals. Both of the man’s ears were plugged with hearing aids and supported a clear tube that delivered oxygen to a device beneath his hairy nostrils. I smiled and nodded, pretty sure the old guy wouldn’t be able to hear anything I said through the thick wooden door. The face disappeared, and I was glad to hear the unmistakable sound of multiple locks being unfastened.
“What is it?” the man wheezed at me when he pushed open the front door a fraction of a crack. “You selling something? I don’t need anything.”
“I’m not a salesperson,” I assured him. “I’m here to see Clara Ridge.” I was guessing this character was her father or father-in-law, and I was grateful she would not be alone when she heard my news.
The guy shook his head and began to close the crack.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said hurriedly. “Clara Ridge,” I said loudly, thinking the clods of plastic in his ears weren’t working up to par and he hadn’t heard me clearly. “Can you please tell Mrs. Ridge that Russell Quant is here to see her. She knows who I am.”
“That could be, but I don’t know her! And I don’t know you,” he told me in a surprisingly commanding voice. “There isn’t anyone here by that name.”
I felt my eyebrows pull together over my nose into a frown. I pulled out the piece of paper on which I’d written my client’s address. “But it says right here—”
“Mister, how many times do I gotta tell you? I don’t give a rat’s ass what it says on that there paper you got. There is no one by the name you mentioned living here. Not now, nor for the last fifty years since I built this house. Someone’s pulling your leg, mister, pulling it real hard.”
Again.
By the time I returned to the Mazda, the little car looked like a car-shaped igloo. I got in without bothering to brush it off and sat silently in the diffused, grey gloom created by weak winter afternoon light pressing through the layers of snow coating the windows. I pulled my cellphone from my jacket pocket and dialled Clara Ridge’s number. I reached the same recording I’d gotten every other time I’d called it, but something told me not to leave a message this time. I started the car, set the heater and wipers to high so I could see where I was going, and sped off in a cloud of fluttering flakes.
Errall’s sparkly new car was behind PWC when I slipped and slid into the parking lot, but I wasn’t in the mood for one of hers, so instead of using the front door that would take me right by her office, I scaled the rickety, old metal stairs that hug the rear of the building and lead directly to the second storey and my office.
Once inside I saw that my phone’s message light was flashing. There was one message with one very interesting piece of information. The caller was Officer Darren Kirsch. He was back from training and had traced the licence plate number I’d memorized and given to him from the SUV that balaclava man had escaped in.
Although I hate bothering him at home on weekends—okay, not really—I dialled the number for the Kirsch residence (which for some odd reason I know by heart). I reached his wife, Treena—a much lovelier woman than he deserves—and after a bit of idle chit-chat, she told me he was at the station, catching up on paperwork that had piled up while he’d been away. I hung up and dialled again.
“Kirsch,” he barked into the phone.
“Quant,” I barked back.
I heard some paper shuffling noises, then, “Allan Dartmouth.” Kirsch, the king of expeditious communication.
So, the vehicle belonged to Allan Dartmouth, massage therapist and Matthew Ridge’s high school buddy. Huh. Interesting. And frustrating. How did he figure into all of this?
“Thanks.”
“So long.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” I yapped into the receiver, hoping to catch him before he hung up. Usually he gives very few hints that he’s about to disconnect, so I was grateful for the “so long.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re in a fine mood today.” He really was being a little more bristly than normal, even for him.
“All this paper is driving me up the friggin’ wall.” A rare personal admission from the cop. What he was really saying was that he’d rather be at home with Treena and their—what was the latest count? Thirteen?—children. I’d caught him being as vulnerable as a guy like him can be. The question was: should I take advantage of it? Make fun of him? Deride him for being whipped? Nope. I wanted something from him.
“Darren,” I said. Not Kirsch. Nice touch, I thought. “I was wondering if there is a home address attached to that licence number.”
He huffed. “You know damn well there is.”
“You in the mood for sharing?” I reminded him of why I was after the information in the first place: Allan Dartmouth, or at least his car, was involved in the harassment of one of Saskatoon’s fine citizens (moi) whom Constable Darren Kirsch, as a cop, had sworn to protect.
“Yeah, yeah, save it for your mama,” he replied. Right before giving me the address.
I thanked him profusely (after he’d already hung up) and, for the moment, stored the Dartmouth info in the Red Herrings File. There was a more urgent matter to attend to.
I dove into the Ridge client folder and double-checked the address Clara Ridge had given me. I had it right. I looked up Clara Ridge in the phone book. There were other listings for Ridge, but none for a Clara. I checked the number in the reverse directory, but there was no listing. I went back to the white pages. There were only three listings for Ridge. On the second I hit pay dirt.
“Oh dear, no,” the sweet female voice answered when I asked for Clara. “Clara hasn’t lived in Saskatoon for years. But I’m her sister-in-law. Can I help you?”
Clara Ridge hadn’t lived in Saskatoon for years? How now, brown cow? I felt a rising tide of heat bridge my jawline and work its way up my cheeks. I gave the woman the Avenue T address.
“No, no, I don’t know anyone at that address. Clara and Clement lived on Witney Avenue. But like I said, that was years ago. I hope you know that Clement passed away several years ago?”
My Clara Ridge told me her husband died only six months ago. I wondered if the million-dollar windfall was a tall tale as well. You think, Sherlock?
“Heart attack?” I asked, which was the story according to my Clara Ridge.
“Cancer,” she told me. “Are you a friend of theirs then?” the sister-in-law asked.
Lie? Truth? Lie? Truth? Lie? Truth? “Oh my goodness, no, I did not know about Clement. I’m so sorry to hear it. I’m an old friend of theirs, just back in town for a few days, thought I’d look them up. How sad about Clement. I should give Clara a call and give her my condolences.”
“Oh yes, she’d like that.”
“Do you happen to have her number handy?”
“Oh, I know it by heart; we talk on the phone
almost every day. My husband complains about how much we talk on the phone, how expensive it is, but we are sisters-in-law after all, and she is all alone now, you know.”
I made some understanding sounds.
“Are you a married man, then?” she asked with a coy twist in her voice.
I blanched, then gave the simplest answer. “Yes.”
“Oh, I see. You have a pen, then?”
“Yes I do.”
“It’s 403-555-8191.”
403? Not only did Clara Ridge not live on Avenue T or in Saskatoon, but she didn’t even live in Saskatchewan. 403 is an Alberta exchange. “Um, where exactly is Clara living?”
“Airdrie. Do you know it? Just outside of Calgary.”
Some vague sounds of acknowledgment from me, then, “When exactly did Clara and Clement move to Alberta?”
“Oh dear, now when was that? I’d say, well, it’s been at least twenty years, you know, right after all the trouble with that son of theirs. Say, when was it you said you knew them?”
Oh-oh. “Please insert seventy-five cents to continue this call,” I said in my best falsetto. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ridge, it sounds like I’m about out of time at this pay phone…crackle, crackle, crackle…thank you for your h—” Then I hung up. It was rude, and I felt bad, but a PI’s gotta do what a PI’s gotta do.
I looked down and saw the fingers of my right hand thrumming the top of my desk, a nervous habit I seemed to have developed since getting on the phone with Clara Ridge’s sister-in-law.
The old man on Avenue T was right. Someone was pulling my leg.
My client was an imposter.
Why? Why would someone pretend to be Clara Ridge and then hire me—at great expense—to find the missing Ridge son?
Oh-oh.
Wait a sec.
My money!
I booted up my darkened computer and punched the appropriate buttons to hook up to the Internet and then my online Royal Bank account, at the same time opening the fridge beneath my desk, pulling out a beer, and then putting it back when I spotted the remains of a bottle of 2003 Villard Estate Chardonnay. I’d bought it solely because it was from Casablanca—Valley that is—in Chile. I read the back of the bottle while waiting for my bank information to load: fifty-five percent barrel-fermented and stored in French oak barrels for eleven months…displays soft tropical fruit and vanilla aromas and flavours…excellent structure and long finish. Sheesh, who writes this stuff? Doesn’t matter; I bought it, didn’t I?
All I had nearby was a brandy snifter (now where did that come from?), and I filled it to near the brim with the golden liquid, nicely emptying the bottle, which I stored under the desk for later recycling (much later). I took a deep sip as I clicked to the page that would show me whether or not Clara Ridge’s original retainer cheque had cleared.
It had. Phew.
If it hadn’t, I would have been in a heap of trouble; travelling in Africa had not been cheap, even with the envelope of cash and without having to pay for the return airfare, which Clara had already covered. I took another sip of the wine. It was old, having been opened over a week ago. I wouldn’t serve it to guests, but for me today, it was okay.
It was time to don my thinking cap. How could a fake Clara Ridge pass off a Clara Ridge cheque? I thought back to our financial discussions and the money she’d given me. I had noted that the cheque was not personalized—as so many are nowadays, and the signature at the bottom was illegible—as so many are nowadays, so it was possible that I was paid by someone completely other than Clara Ridge. But again, why? Why would someone do that? Was the fake Clara Ridge hired by the real Clara Ridge, too afraid or meek to do it herself for some reason? Or was there some other, more iniquitous reason? There was only one way to find out. I dialled the Alberta number.
“Hello,” said a spidery voice, which I immediately knew did not belong to the woman I’d been hired by. “Clara Ridge speaking.”
Truth? Lie? Truth? Lie? “Mrs. Ridge, my name is Russell Quant. I’m a detective, and I live in Saskatoon. A short while ago I was hired by a woman to find your son, Matthew Ridge. This woman told me her name was Clara Ridge.”
For a while there was silence, then a short intake of breath followed by, “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
I did. The woman was obviously thinking over the yarn I’d just told her, which I’m certain must have sounded as incredible to her as the plot of a Harry Potter novel. I gave her a moment to digest the information before continuing. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions? So I can clear this up.”
“Of course,” she finally agreed. “What do you need to know?”
I wished I could do this in person, but somehow I sensed I didn’t have the luxury of time for a trip to our next-door-neighbour province. I had to find the truth; I had to find out who had really hired me and why, and soon, because if I didn’t, I just knew the violence that had followed me from Saskatoon to Africa would not end there. “I take it you know nothing about this woman or her wanting to find your son?”
“No, I…I don’t…but, well, did you?”
“Did I what?” I was stalling. I knew what she wanted to know.
“Did you find Matthew? Oh my goodness, I never thought such a thing would be possible. I never thought about a detective. Did you? Did you find him, Mr. Quant? Did you find my son?” Suddenly her weak voice sounded stronger, infused with hope.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ridge. I did not.” Lie. Sort of.
“Oh. I see.” She was crestfallen, but not as much as she would have been had I been able to bring myself to divulge to her the horrible truth.
“Can you tell me a little about when you last saw Matthew and why…well, why you lost track of him?” I wanted to compare the real story to the one I’d been told. Any inconsistencies might give me a hint as to the fake Mrs. Ridge’s true identity. “And why did you move away from Saskatoon?”
“Matthew had a difficult time in school, Mr. Quant,” she began. “He was a troubled boy. I don’t know why; he just was. We tried to talk to him, his father and me, but he always seemed so distant, so angry at us, at everyone around him. The older he got the worse it got. Matthew and Clement, his father, were very close when he was a young boy, so it breaks my heart to think of what happened between them later on.
“You see, Clement couldn’t understand it, why his boy, the apple of his eye, suddenly became a stranger. He had been such a sweet child, you understand, so it didn’t make sense to us.” A coughing spell interrupted her. She gave in to it wholeheartedly, then continued. “It was the summer after he finished grade ten when it happened. And just like that, our lives were ruined. Our name was ruined. Our reputation was dirt.”
This was something new. I held my tongue and waited for the story to come out.
“Our name was in the paper every day. All you had to do was mention the name Ridge and people looked at you differently. It was as if we’d all done it, not just Matthew, as if we were all guilty of what he did.” She stopped there and coughed again, a smoker’s cough I guessed, at least a pack-a-day habit. “Saskatoon is too small a city to go unnoticed after something like that. There was no escaping it. We had to leave Saskatoon to get away from it.” She coughed some more.
I was perplexed. Petty thievery and drugs? That was the big news story that drove the Ridges away from their home, their city, their business, their son? “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ridge, but was there something in particular that happened the summer after Matthew finished grade ten that caused you to leave Saskatoon?”
Another brief silence. “You don’t know?”
This was going to be good, I could tell. “No, I don’t think I do. The woman I talked to told me that your husband kicked Matthew out of the house when he was sixteen, and eventually Matthew was sent to reform school because of some minor problems with the law, and that you never saw him again after that.”
“I suppose most of that’s true, Mr. Quant, except that the last bit of trouble Matthew
got into wasn’t a minor problem with the law. You see, they sent Matthew away because he beat up another boy. He beat that boy so bad he almost died.”
Errall Strane is a friend. There, I’ve said it. She’s also a colleague, my lawyer, my landlord, and a regular pain in the ass but a trusted confidante when it comes to my cases. We’ve come a long way, she and I, from tolerating each other simply because we had a person in common whom we both loved (the newly reappeared Kelly), to tolerating each other because I rent my office space from her and work in the same building, to tolerating each other because we seem to hang out with some of the same people, to tolerating each other because…well, just because we kind of enjoy tolerating each other. Make sense? Nope. I don’t think so either, but there it is.
After getting off the phone following a rather lengthy conversation with the real Clara Ridge, I found myself thumping down the staircase that leads to the first floor of PWC, where Errall takes up over half the square footage with her spacious and pretentiously decorated one-woman law office. I found Errall hard at work behind the war-room-sized piece of metal and glass that acts as her desk, surrounded by a collection of thick lawyer-ish tomes, file folders brimming with reams of paper, and a long-empty, lipstick-stained Starbucks cup. Errall’s dark hair was loose around her shoulders and looked as if it had been run through with her fingers many times over during the last few hours. Although it was a Saturday afternoon, she was still wearing one of her smart and severe business suits, but she’d given in to weekend slack by leaving her blouse unbuttoned to a rather daring low point, low enough for me to see she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Sundowner Ubuntu Page 24
